Death of a Trophy Wife by Laura Levine Read Free Book Online Page B

lumpy, but I bet if I stretched out and felt a real mattress beneath me, the slogans would practically write themselves.
    So I trotted back inside and stretched out on my bed, waiting for the mattress muse to show up.
    Unfortunately, the only one who showed up was Mr. Sandman.
    In no time, I was out like a light, only to be awakened several hours later by a loud pounding on my front door.
    I hustled over to answer it and there on my doorstep was my would-be fiancé, Vladimir Ivan Trotsky, holding a bouquet of what looked suspiciously like my neighbor’s tulips.
    Oh, lord. I’d forgotten all about my date with him. Tonight was the night I was supposed to have dinner at his Aunt Minna’s.
    “Good evening, my beloved Jaine!” he said, handing me the tulips. “How beautiful you look!”
    “Er, thanks,” I said, wiping the sleep from my eyes.
    “Wonderful news!” He beamed.
    The only wonderful news I wanted to hear was that our date was cancelled.
    “I write you another poem.”
    With that, he whipped a piece of paper from his pocket and began reading me his latest opus:
    To Jaine, whose lips are red as beet
And also has such pretty feet
I cannot wait to tie the knot
Your Vladimir is hot to trot.
    At this point, I could hear the faint sounds of Elizabeth Barrett Browning rolling over in her grave.
    “I already told you, Vladimir. There will be absolutely no knot-tying. You do understand that, don’t you?”
    “Of course, my beloved Jaine,” he said, gazing at me with a lovestruck grin. Why did I get the feeling my message hadn’t quite penetrated his skull?
    “You ready to meet my family?” he asked.
    “Can’t wait,” I lied. “Just let me change into something more presentable.”
    After putting the tulips in a vase, I scooted to my bedroom to throw on some slacks and a sweater. Then off to the bathroom for a quick splash of water on my face, a gargle of Listerine, and a hasty application of lipstick. I didn’t bother with perfume. No sense getting the guy any more excited than he already was.
    All the while, I could hear Vladimir crooning what sounded like an Uzbek lullaby to Prozac.
    When I came out into the living room, I found the little hussy sprawled in his arms having her belly rubbed.
    “Pretty kitty,” Vladimir cooed. “You will love it in Uzbekistan. You and my goat Svetlana will be best friends.”
    She greeted that news with a cavernous yawn.
    Whatever. Got any tuna?
    “All set,” I said, breaking up their little lovefest.
    Vladimir leaped up at the sight of me, clutching his heart.
    “Jaine, my beloved! You even more beautiful than before! In all my life I never see such beauty.”
    The guy obviously didn’t get out much.
    “Come, my beautiful future bride; it’s time to meet my family.”
    “Look, Vladimir. How many times do I have to tell you? This bride thing is not going to happen. I’m just going to dinner. That’s all. Get it?”
    “Okey dokey! Vladimir understand. You still not in love with me. But don’t worry. You will be.”
    On that ominous note, I headed off to meet the Trotsky clan.
     
    Vladimir had borrowed his cousin Boris’s car for the occasion, a rusty hunk of junk that looked like it had spent its formative years in a demolition derby. At one time it may have been red; now it had oxidized into a crusty orange.
    The passenger door squealed in protest as he pried it open.
    I was just about to climb in when I heard an angry “Hey!”
    I looked up to see Mrs. Hurlbut, my neighbor from across the street, standing in front of her prized tulip bed.
    “I saw you take those tulips!” she shrieked at Vladimir, marching over to us.
    “So sorry, lady!” Vladimir graced her with his goofy grin. “I could not resist.
    “Beautiful flowers, for my beautiful flower,” he said, gesturing to me.
    “Beautiful flower, my fanny!” she humphed.
    “For you,” he said, handing her a half-eaten roll of Lifesavers.
    “I don’t want any crummy Lifesavers,” she said,